


blood and metal (say that one more time)

by deadseasburntoutstars (snowontherooftops)



Series: homestuck character studies [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Character Study, Child Abuse, I Hate Bro Strider, Physical Abuse, Rated For Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 05:52:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11845281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowontherooftops/pseuds/deadseasburntoutstars
Summary: bro tells you to meet him on the roof.





	blood and metal (say that one more time)

crows are the dopest fuckin birds. like if you saw them walkin down the fuckin street, you would think to yourself, damn, what a cool bird. that bird is so cool i feel like i need to put a jacket on. feel like you are damn near callin an ambulance because thats a fuckin bird popsicle, right on the sidewalk, or maybe a scientist, because its over a hundred damn degrees out here, what the fuck. thats how fuckin cool crows are.

(you are so fuckin scared)

theres no beatin crows in terms of bird coolness, unless your bro was a bird in which case crows would be absolutely FUCKED UP, which is what youre about to be soon if you dont make a goddamn battle plan or some shit, pull something out of your ass that is just crazy enough to work like they do in the movies. this isnt the movies, though, and there are no battle plans thatll work against your bro. 

(cool kids arent supposed to be scared) 

bro is already on the roof, that fast motherfucker, while youre still stuck here climbin all. these. FUCKIN. STAIRS. jesus christ you fuckin hate stairs. you wish someone had warned you about the stairs before you moved in with your naive baby ass. you should always be warned about the stairs, bro, its in the fuckin constitution. george washington in his powdered slave ownin glory wrote that down himself, because every five year old knows that george washington wrote the constitution and absolutely HATED stairs, and dont let the stair lovers tell you otherwise.

(but you dont feel like a cool kid right now. you just feel like a kid. a scared fuckin kid)

the sun glints off of bros glasses sharply when youre finally done climbin all those fuckin stairs, sword out, and no, that is not a euphemism for his dick for once, because his sword is not a jokin matter and you have the scars to prove it.

(you hate that goddamn sword)

you brought your sword too, because youre not a fuckin idiot, but you might as well have not for all the good itll do you. he waits for you to get in your fightin stance, because bro is nothin if not a gentleman. you do, sword in the air and legs bent apart. your sword feels repulsive, and you want to drop it with every bone in your body and run screamin down the stairs, but thats not how cool kids act, that is not how strifes work, and bro would catch your slow ass and beat you hard enough to break all your bones if you ever did some fuckshit like that.

he moves so fast you cant really comprehend it, barely dodgin a blow that would have sliced open your belly like, fuck, like, you dont fuckin know, cause youre too busy bein kneed in the stomach for stallin to come up with a good analogy. 

(you hate him, you really do)

you dash at bro, keeping low and slicin where the back of his head should have been, but he disappears before your sword can make contact, like he always does. bro reappears behind you, catchin you by the shoulder and grabbin your wrist so hard the bones grind together, and you know therere gonna be bruises.

(sometimes it feels like you are always covered in bruises, like you could half count time in old ones healin and new ones appearin instead of the steady hands of a clock, the ones that are always tickin down to the next time you have to show up on the fuckin roof and get your ass sliced apart, until your next batch of blueblack bruises bloom like grotesque flowers all over your miserable fuckin body, and it is fuckin miserable.) 

bro throws you across the roof like you weigh nothin, like you are nothin. you wish you really were nothin, because nothin doesnt feel pain. nothin doesnt have a back that skids across the pavement, and you know your not nothin like you know that the blood paintin wet, abstract figures on your canvas of a back does not make this strife over, this strife is not over until you physically cant move from pain.

(but the blood does make you painfully fuckin beautiful. blood has a habit of doin that.) 

 you stagger back to your feet, sword gripped tight. your hands are gonna smell like metal. you hate the smell of metal. your ankle isnt feelin the best, either. its not broken, but you can tell it got fucked up when bro threw you, mostly cause of the waves of pain emanatin from that very spot.

bro speaks.

"You're slow."

if steel had a voice, you would imagine it would sound like his, cold and sharp, impatience wringin from every word. like steel, bro is entirely unforgivin. you nod. you are slow. most people are, compared to him, but that isnt a good enough excuse and you know it. youre not most people, youre a goddamn strider.

(even if you wish you werent sometimes.)

"Don't just nod like a dumbass, answer me."

"I know." your voice shakes and cracks like a buildin in an earthquake. bro sneers.

"You know. Knowing isn't going to do shit for you, little man. You can know everything and still die if you can't cut it in a fight. Do you think you can cut it in a fight, Dave?" 

bros voice is monotone, and you try to imitate it, but the best you can do is a low mutter. "No."

"Say that one more time. I don't think I heard you right. Can you cut it in a fight, Dave?" he looks at you over his shades, orange eyes clear and calculatin and cold. you know him well enough by now to know that there is no right answer to any question he asks like that. you also know that this strife is almost over, and you are somewhat relived, but mostly fuckin terrified.

(there is no good end to a strife with bro. the very idea is paradoxical.)

you know a lot, and you know you cant cut anythin, not against bro. you clear your throat.

"N-" bro throws his sword like a goddamn javelin, and it catches you in the side. you fall to the ground beside it, chokin on pain, and blood. oh shit, oh god, thats a lot of blood, there should not be that much blood.

bro is stands, no, he fuckin looms, like hes a villain straight out of one of the shitty animes he loves. he looms over you, kickin you back until youre flat on your back, shirt torn to shit and abso fuckin lutely drenched in blood. you dont think that he got any of your organs, wouldnt do somethin he couldnt fix himself, but jesus thats a lot of goddamn blood. the wind blows your white hair off your sweaty forehead. your shades are a few feet away, unscathed except for a few extra scuff marks.

"No," bro says finally, starin at you apathetically. "You can't cut it."

"Br-" you choke on the spit and blood thats accumulated in your mouth. you think some of your teeth have been knocked loose. "Bro-"

"Shut the fuck up." his voice is even, level, like hes not do anythin even remotely interestin, like hes havin a nice chat with the doorman about the goddamn weather. your vision is startin to spot over, your head heavy and eyelids weak.

"I-" you try, and bro puts his foot on the still bleedin gash over your ribs and presses, and oh, oh, that is just excruciatin.

you really do black out this time.

(you wake up in the bathroom on the toilet hours later, wound shittly stitched up and back a mess. your entire torso is covered in blood.)

(you wonder, absently, if it would be weird to think of it as beautiful.)

**Author's Note:**

> if you cant relate then lucky you


End file.
